King
by Fierce Heart
Summary: In the conquest for power and the battle of wills, only one can be crowned victorious.


_**So, wow, its been a really long time since I've uploaded anything up here...anyway, new story, here we go... :)**_

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><p>Blood.<p>

It was everything; an addicting drug that he could never shake. He wouldn't.

It was the law of this barren wasteland, of survival.

It was beautiful; its crimson hues catching the light as it glinted on the skin of his enemies, off his blade.

Its taste, exquisite, as he licked it from his claws, from his lips.

The pure sensation of battle was intoxication.

He lived for it.

He was king.

He was Grimmjow fucking Jaggerjaques.

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><p>The sand shifted with the wind, white grains finding their way into his clothes and hair. Dunes went on for miles and miles, the dips and rises between the mounds the only change in the bleak landscape. The sun blistered from its place in the sky, scorching the already dry earth. It was desolate, devoid of life… harsh.<p>

And yet, it was home.

Cerulean eyes slid dispassionately over the barren hills before drifting shut. Cobalt hair blew untamed in the breeze. Nostrils flared and scented the air; there was nothing, no hint of prey on the wind.

The figure shifted, muscles bunching and coiling before extending into a large leap. It continued this way for a time; leap, land, and repeat, until it stopped on another dune.

Still the same. Nothing.

It was a morbid little sandbox they were placed in, unending and unforgiving. And now, it had been reduced to a serene façade of what it had once been, leaving its inhabitants with naught.

No prey. No challenge. _No __purpose._

And all for order.

Order. He **hated **the word. Order meant rules, and he'd only ever follow his own. Order meant prey was scarce; meaningless bloodshed was frowned upon.

Order had taken away his crown, his purpose.

Eyes reopened, smoldering, and teeth bared themselves in a menacing snarl. Deadly, red light shot suddenly from a finger, and a sand dune exploded in a cloud of particles.

The figure turned round, heading aimlessly towards a white palace buried within the sands… it was all he had left anyway.

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><p>His footsteps echoed off the marble floors, alerting everyone to his presence, but he found he didn't care. He was already late to the damn "meeting" and he sure as hell wasn't tiptoeing in like a brat caught tardy.<p>

Aizen's voice rang from the head of the table, "Grimmjow. So nice of you to join us."

The Sexta espada grunted in reply and threw himself into his seat, refusing to meet the powerful shinigami's gaze. Aizen glanced at him for a second longer before returning to his other "subjects" and detailing what he expected of them for the day.

Grimmjow tuned out most of the longwinded speech, busying himself with getting the blood out from underneath his nails. He wasn't interested in the other man's machinations for power and control, unless they affected him directly. If anything, Aizen's need for organization and control annoyed the blue-haired espada. And did everything have to be so bloody _white?_

He was broken from his reverie when Nnoitra's elbow met with his side. "Way to be late, Jaggerjaques."

"Fuck off."

The Quinto espada's piano tooth grin widened, "Now, now, Grimmkitty. No need to unleash your claws. Just saying, what with the look Aizen gave you when you shuffled in 15 minutes late, looks like you're in for a spanking."

The other didn't even bother dignifying the comment with a response, choosing to let a growl rumble out of his chest instead. The Quinto espada then preceded to make soft mewing noises, further annoying the Sexta until they were both hushed by a hissed "Silence" from Ulquiorra. The Fourth espada turned back to face his esteemed Lord Aizen, muttering a whispered "trash" under his breath.

Finally, the group was dismissed, and the arrancars all made to depart for their rooms and duties, fraccions following dutifully behind.

Aizen's voice rang out through the chamber.

"Grimmjow. A word, if you please."

The blue-haired espada let out a frustrated growl, but obeyed, halting in his movement and turning to face the shinigami seated at the head of the table. A heavy reiatsu began to settle in the room, making his skin prickle in irritation.

It was the main source of his hatred for the shinigami; the power the other held. It was bad enough the shinigami race had been a thorn in the side of hollows for centuries, suppressing them, disposing of them when they sought more energy across the mortal plain, crushing them before they grew into the full extent of their abilities. But for a lone shinigami to be this powerful?

He hated being under the thumb of anyone. He had fought tooth and nail for the right to rule, and it had been stolen right from underneath him, dangled in front of his face in the form of the man who could destroy him as easily as lifting a pinky.

Said man fixed his Sexta with a steady look, a serene expression betraying the pulse of power in the room.

"Would you like to tell me what you were doing this afternoon?" the brunette shinigami asked, his tone neutral, as if merely discussing the weather.

Grimmjow trained his gaze to the floor before replying, "I was out hunting, as is my right."

"And your excuse for being late?"

"Lost track of time." The response was gritted out from behind clenched teeth

"Ah, I see." Aizen seemed to contemplate the retort for a moment before replying in the same amiable tone, "Perhaps a form of punishment is in order. That way, you remember not to forget yourself when out in the dunes. What do you, think, Grimmjow?"

The espada grit his teeth harder as he stared at the floor, determined to keep himself from outburst. The words he wanted to say to the snob shinigami would only result in a worse punishment.

"Grimmjow, I'd appreciate it if you would look at me when I am addressing you."

Silence, and a tension that pulsed along with the atmosphere of the room. Neither man moved.

"Sexta…**look** at me." The words were said softly, but one wouldn't mistake the venom that lay beneath them.

Blue eyes slowly rose to meet molten gold, and Grimmjow could feel the reiatsu pressure rise. An involuntary shudder ran through him, and he cursed himself for the weakness. He allowed his hatred for the other man to smolder in his eyes, meeting those of the shinigami with proud defiance.

He watched a muscle tick in Aizen jaw, but any other sign of emotion was wiped from the man's expression. The reiatsu surged, suddenly blanketing him in its smothering weight. His knees shook with the effort to hold himself upright. He tightened his jaw, determined to not let any other weakness show. If this was to be a battle of wills, he would hold his ground.

Aizen's eyes narrowed, a flicker of annoyance and something else passing through brown depths. The pressure in the room intensified to unbearable levels. Grimmjow felt nausea rise in his gut, a trickle of sweat gracing his brow, his legs silently quivering.

It proved to be too much. He sank to the floor overcome, brought to his knees before the other, head hung in defeat.

"Better." Came the whisper to his ear.

Grimmjow wanted to scream his denial at the top of his lungs, but he kept silent. The shinigami had won this round.

Aizen stepped down from the raised dais, striding over to the Sexta's prone form. A hand reached out to comb gently through cobalt locks, slightly damp with exertion.

"Such passion, you have Grimmjow," he almost crooned, "I would like to see such resolve towards my own cause." His hand moved to cup the espada's chin, raising his rebellious Sexta's gaze to his own. Cerulean eyes shimmered with unrestrained fire, but the man kept dutifully silent.

"I would ask that you give a little more respect, Grimmjow. Such rebellion is only pointless in the end, yes?"

The espada lowered his gaze to the floor once more, muscles still trembling at random.

"Grimmjow?"

A short silenced followed before a softly whispered, "As you wish, my Lord," the submissive reply torn from his throat.

The reiatsu in the room lessened considerably, and Grimmjow felt himself sway with the lack of pressure, grounded by the hand holding his chin.

Aizen's hand shifted to comb back through his hair once more. "There," he said approvingly, " Obeying does have its rewards, does it not? It pains me to punish you so, my Sexta."

Grimmjow felt the need to throw up return, but he pushed it back down. "Forgive me, my Lord," he intoned, managing to strangle the words past his vocal cords.

The shinigami patted his head in response, and the Sexta espada got the sickening image of a dog being praised by its master, "All is forgiven, Grimmjow."

The shinigami shifted back a step, "You may rise now."

Grimmjow slowly got to his feet, keeping his gaze withdrawn, "Am I dismissed then, my Lord?"

The shinigami fixed him with a level stare, his eyes so much sharper now that he have given up the façade of wearing glasses. Grimmjow had almost preferred him that way; his gaze hadn't nearly been as piercing.

A tendril of reiatsu caressed his face, causing an imperceptible shiver to shoot up his spine.

"Of course. I'll expect you at tomorrow's meeting then. On time."

The blue-haired espada bowed before turning and trying his hardest not to look like he was fleeing the room. He needed to get away-and recover what was left of his dignity.

Light brown eyes watched the espada exit the throne room, gleaming with amusement and perhaps something a little darker.

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